


Working Together

by earlgreytea68



Series: KtCR [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2015-04-29
Packaged: 2018-03-25 07:55:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3802648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgreytea68/pseuds/earlgreytea68
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Arthur and Eames have Paris.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to arctacuda for looking this over for me, very last-minute because I'm a disaster!
> 
> And thank you to knackorcraft for looking this over for me when it was a very new document many, many ages ago and checking my Paris a bit!

Chapter One

Arthur’s Paris flat was lovely. 

Because of course it was. 

Arthur seemed very nervous about showing it to him, explaining things non-stop, as if Eames needed to have explained to him _this is the living room, here is the kitchen_. The living room was quintessentially Arthur, sleek, modern furniture crowded around the ornately Baroque fireplace. The art on the wall was an old mural on one side that Eames had the feeling was original to the space and a tapestry that looked genuinely medieval. 

“Eames lounge,” he said, smiling at the chair and nudging it a bit with his foot. “I’ll have to have mine shipped in.” 

“That would be nice,” Arthur said, almost shyly, and then, “Here’s the kitchen.”

Eames ignored Arthur’s kitchen tour in favor of going over to the tapestry and studying it with a slight frown. 

“It’s a small apartment,” Arthur was saying, “I know, but it was just me, at the time, and I didn’t think—”

His voice indicated he was back in the living room, so Eames said, “Is this real?” 

“It’s not as old as you’re thinking. It’s seventeenth century, done in mimicry of an older style.” 

“You have a seventeenth-century tapestry over a bookcase that is stocked entirely with maths porn,” Eames remarked, pulling some tome on calculus out of the bookcase. “I am never going to get tired of you.” 

Arthur was silent, so Eames looked up at him. He had an odd, strangled look to him, and was standing awkwardly, as if he didn’t belong in the space even though it was very clearly _his space_. 

“We can sell it,” Arthur said. “If you don’t like it. Buy something new.” 

“The tapestry? No, I love it. The calculus books? I am going to make you read these to me in bed.” Eames carried the book over to Arthur, thrust it into his hands. 

“The apartment,” Arthur said. 

“Arthur, I love the apartment. Or, as I would say, flat.” 

“You don’t have to love it.” Arthur frowned a little bit. “And you can’t. You’ve barely even seen it.” 

“Is that mural original to this place?” 

Arthur glanced at it. “Yes. Eighteenth century.” 

“I bloody love this place,” Eames grinned at him. 

“I know you prefer things modern—”

“I prefer things _beautiful_. This fits the bill.” Eames hooked his hands into Arthur’s pockets, pulled him close. 

“You didn’t see the kitchen,” Arthur said, a little breathless. 

“Does this place have a bedroom?” Eames asked. “Show me that instead.” 

***

Arthur’s bedroom was in ever so slight disarray. Eames found it charming. He’d learned that Arthur was naturally much neater than Eames was ever going to be, but Arthur did let himself go sometimes, when he felt comfortable enough to do it, and his bedroom reflected that. There was a suit jacket draped over the tiny chair in the corner, for instance. And an old wine glass on the nightstand. Eames thought of Arthur taking wine to bed with him with a book, maybe a maths book, and felt so dazzlingly in love he had to blink a bit to overcome it. 

Arthur’s bedspread was a taupe silky thing that suited Arthur well, Eames thought, and he’d accented it with punches of scarlet and violet that Eames would have thought would have clashed but somehow worked beautifully because Arthur had pulled it off. The bed wasn’t huge, and Eames thought they might have to have a chat about that because small beds were all well and good during honeymoon phases but eventually they’d probably get tired of sleeping cramped into each other’s space. 

For the moment, Eames sprawled in Arthur’s bed with Arthur sleeping heavily next to him and looked out Arthur’s bedroom window. The window was floor-to-ceiling, with a curved top, multi-paned. There was something very French about it. Arthur had curtains that matched his bedspread, but they were flung away from the window, and Eames could see the Parisian buildings hugging each other across the street. The room was illuminated gently, a combination of moonlight and city light, and Eames turned and admired Arthur by it, thought of how lovely the light was going to be in this place, how much beautiful art he was going to make by it. 

Eames leaned forward and kissed Arthur’s bare shoulder. 

Once upon a time, Arthur would have snapped his neck over that, Eames thought. This Arthur scrunched his face up in displeasure and mumbled something that sounded like _What do you want?_

Eames grinned. “Nothing,” he murmured, and kissed Arthur’s dear, frowny face. 

Arthur grumbled at him and turned his face into his pillow, and Eames left him to his sleep, slipping out of the bed and walking out into the flat. Arthur had probably been awake the entire flight, but Eames had slept, against Arthur’s recommendations, and now he was predictably jetlagged. 

He poked his head into the kitchen, which was fairly tiny but well-equipped. State of the art appliances, and gleaming copper pots and pans set out on display. Eames supposed a fake world-class chef had to have a kitchen to match. He had to have Arthur cook for him one of these days. 

Next to the tapestry that had transfixed him was a set of French doors, and, curious, Eames opened them onto the most delightful little lacy, wrought-iron balcony. Arthur had a small café table out there, with two chairs pulled up to it, and Eames sat and leaned on the railing and looked at Paris all around him. He watched the sky pinken, watched dawn creep in, watched the outline of the Eiffel Tower in the distance darken starkly against the rising sun. 

He heard Arthur behind him but stayed still, waiting to see what he would do. 

He slipped onto the balcony with him, making a dramatic shivering noise. “What are you doing out here?” he asked. “It’s cold.” 

It was, actually, sharp and brisk, but Eames didn’t care, the air smelled fresh and the bite in it felt good. “Arthur,” he said, without turning around, “this is the most beautiful place. No wonder you love it here.” 

Arthur didn’t say anything for a moment. Then Eames felt him press a kiss into the back of his neck. “Come back to bed,” he murmured. 

Eames smiled into the gradually awakening Paris street. “You kicked me out of that bed.” 

“No, I didn’t.” Arthur nosed behind his ear. “I definitely wanted you to stay in the bed. I just wanted you to be _quieter_.” Arthur bit his earlobe. 

Eames went back to bed. 

***

Arthur had always considered Paris home, but he had never spent long, uninterrupted periods of time there. He had never spent long, uninterrupted periods of time anywhere as an adult. There was always the next job over the horizon, his life had been a whirlwind of work, and he had enjoyed it, but now he was enjoying the novelty of taking time off, of not following Dom all over the world, unable to put down roots. 

Now he put down roots. He became a regular at particular cafes, particular patisseries. Purveyors knew which cheeses to set aside for him, which breads he would want. He really let himself settle into the daily rhythm of life in Paris, strolling through markets and letting ingredients catch his eye, and then going home and cooking for Eames, who frequently stood in the kitchen doorway and distracted him with little approving noises. 

Eames, Arthur thought, liked Paris. He didn’t speak French as effortlessly as Arthur did, but he spoke it well enough to get along and of course everyone found him charming because he was Eames and his charm was ridiculously overpowering. It was Eames who grew friendly with the neighbors, so that Arthur found himself feeling compelled to exchange pleasantries on his way in from runs, gross and sweaty and awkward and clutching a to-go cup of coffee for Eames. Everyone in the neighborhood just adored Eames, and Arthur would have been jealous except that he knew how they felt. 

Arthur had always known he had the capacity for staying put somewhere. He liked excitement and exotic locales, but he had known the minute he’d seen Paris, when he had still been so young he would call himself a kid, that he would want to live there. He’d been anxious that Eames would grow bored. Arthur knew from years of keeping tabs on Eames that he was always on the move. But Eames seemed so content that Arthur let himself drift into the routine of _them_ , _here_ , _this_ , and sometimes Arthur thought this was the most dangerous thing he’d ever done in a lifetime of dangerous things. 

Their days were laidback and lazy for two career criminals. Arthur went for runs in the dawn hours, enjoying sharing Paris only with those others who knew the secret of how lovely Paris was as the sun rose. He always brought Eames back coffee and sometimes a croissant if he was feeling extra generous. Arthur always brought Eames back things when he went out. He was compulsive about buying Eames things. Eames kept saying that he didn’t need a treat every time Arthur went out, but the truth was Arthur spent every moment away from Eames thinking about Eames, and wouldn’t he like that particular thing, right there. 

Sometimes Arthur just left the coffee on the bedside table and went straight for the shower. Other times he dropped a kiss on the huddle of Eames under the blankets. And other times he couldn’t resist and tossed the blankets aside and woke Eames up by swallowing him down. And still other times it was Eames who was lying in wait for him, who grabbed him by the front of his T-shirt before he could move away from the nightstand and dragged him into bed. 

Some days they never made it out of the bed. 

Other days they did. Arthur liked Paris and was inclined to go out into it. Eames would come along sometimes, but Arthur knew it was mainly to humor him. After they had finished the tourist circuit—and Eames in the art museums of Paris meant that sometimes being caught for public sex was actually a very near thing—Eames set himself up with an easel and paint, colonizing a corner of the bedroom, and was happy to paint for hours. He said the light was lovely perfection in the bedroom. The living room was slightly bigger, but Eames said the light wasn’t as good, and so Arthur rearranged the bedroom for him. He suggested they get him a studio somewhere, but Eames looked a little sad at the idea and less than enthusiastic when he agreed to it, as if he was doing it just because he was worried Arthur was annoyed at the mess he made. Arthur was not annoyed at the mess, although he drew the line at Eames painting in bed, which he seemed to think was a good idea. 

So Arthur left Eames painting and enjoyed his city. He wandered through the used-book stalls along the Seine and bought himself things to read and then sat in cafes and read them. Sometimes Eames, needing a break from painting, would track him down the way only they could track each other, and then he’d tug Arthur out to some hole-in-the-wall place he’d found, and he’d ply him with champagne as if Arthur still needed to be seduced. 

On other days, Arthur did serious shopping, frowning at couture designs in exclusive shops. Eames made him do fashion shows for him when he came back with new clothes. Sometimes Arthur came back with items for Eames, and Eames would smile and shake his head over Arthur. 

And then Arthur would cook and Eames would either paint or bother Arthur in the kitchen, and usually they would eat dinner on the balcony, working their way through a bottle of wine while Paris grew dark around them, and eventually they would go to bed. 

Dom was bewildered by the whole thing. “Surely he’s out pickpocketing or something,” he said, when Arthur, using the opportunity of a market trip to call Dom to chat, explained that he’d left Eames painting because Eames was almost always painting. “Something to keep himself from dying of boredom.” 

Arthur frowned at the two eggplants he was comparing. “He isn’t going to die of boredom. I am not _boring_.” 

“You’re a little boring in Paris.” 

“No, I’m not.” 

“Yes, you are. You’re, like, some sort of old-moneyed banker in Paris. I don’t say that like it’s a bad thing.” 

“Yes,” Arthur said dryly. “You are definitely saying that like it’s a bad thing.”

“I just can’t wrap my head around the two of you,” said Dom, marveling. “I wish you’d come and visit so I could see the two of you together.” 

Arthur could think of nothing he wanted less than Dom acting like his relationship was an incredible shock that would never be sustained and Eames murdering Dom with every glare because of how Eames felt about Dom. He said, “We work together fine.” And then, because that sounded almost indifferent to his ears, “We work together better than fine. It’s all going really well, and he’s not out pickpocketing. I don’t think Eames ever wanted to be a con artist, Dom. He wanted to be an artist, period. It was just that cons were the only way to get there.” 

He’d actually never shared this theory with Eames, but he thought it more and more these days, when there was new art in their living room every time Arthur got home. It was all astonishingly beautiful, Eames discovering his own style day by day. Eames was incredibly good at every illegal thing he did, but Arthur actually thought that Eames was the one who would have been perfectly happy with an above-board life. It was Arthur who itched for guns. 

Arthur got home and found Eames painting in the bedroom. 

“What do you think?” Eames asked, gesturing toward the canvas. 

Arthur tackled Eames to the floor. 

Afterward, smeared with paint and bodily fluids, Eames panted, “Best painting I’ve done to date. Clearly. If it provoked that.” 

“Are you bored?” Arthur asked bluntly. 

Eames looked blank. “Arthur, when do I have time to be bored?” 

“Just checking.” Arthur leaned over him and kissed him lightly. “The painting is beautiful. But they all are. I’m thinking of finding you a gallery. I could be your agent.” 

“You’d be a shark of an agent.” 

“Exactly,” said Arthur, pleased, and headed to the shower. 

Eames followed him.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

“Are _you_ bored?” Eames asked him, letting his wineglass dangle negligently over the balcony railing. 

Arthur considered the question seriously, tipping back in his chair. Around them was Parisian twilight, and Arthur reacted instinctively. “No. I am not the least bit bored. I am happy here with you.” 

“Right. Because you’re talking about becoming my agent.” 

Arthur tried not to look hurt. “Wouldn’t you like that?” 

“I’d love it. But you know what it says to me? You’re bored.”

“Because I want to help you with your art?” asked Arthur, letting his irritation show. 

“Because you’re looking for something to do. Why did you ask me if I was bored?” 

“If I tell you, you’ll laugh at me.” 

“I never laugh at you.” 

Arthur gave him a look. 

“I laugh _with_ you,” said Eames, “only sometimes you’re slow and don’t laugh until later.” 

“Dom got it in my head,” mumbled Arthur into his wineglass. 

Even in the growing darkness, Arthur could see Eames lift his eyebrows. “Since when does Dom Cobb know anything about _me_?” 

“He said he’d thought you’d be bored by now. That you’d be out pickpocketing tourists at the Arc de Triomphe or something.” 

Eames looked indignant. “That would be so easy, I’m offended he’d ever suggest I’d do such a thing.” 

“If you’d had my life, you’d already be a famous artist somewhere.” 

“I don’t even know what that means.” 

“I mean, you wouldn’t have been restless in Iowa. You’d have had doting parents to get you art lessons, and you’d find some art school somewhere, and you would never have—”

“I never would have dreamed?” guessed Eames. 

“Literally and figuratively,” admitted Arthur. 

Eames was silent for a moment, leaned up against the railing, sipping his wine and watching the street below them. He said, eventually, “I don’t know. I’ve never lived like this before. I’ve never…stayed in one place so long.” He looked at Arthur. “Stayed with one person so long. Maybe I would have loved this all along, if I tried it. I think it’s possible I just love _you_.” 

“You’re so ridiculous,” Arthur muttered, because he knew he still blushed embarrassingly whenever Eames told him he loved him. 

“I would say that you miss having something to do, a hobby like I’ve got, because don’t tell me shopping is an adequate substitute, and you’re a good cook but you’re not actually an especially passionate one. I am an expert in what inspires passion in you, you know. And you miss dreamsharing.” 

Arthur wouldn’t have said that. Arthur didn’t think it until that moment. And then he did. And he realized Eames was right. “I do,” he said, kind of surprised at himself. “I actually do a lot.” 

“Yes.” Eames was smiling at him. “Because you’re the best point in the business and I’m hogging you. If you want to take a job, take a job. I know you’ve had offers.” 

“What would you do?” 

“Stay here? Or go somewhere else if you’d rather I not stay here without you. If the job doesn’t need a forger, that is.” 

“I haven’t had any offers for jobs needing forgers,” said Arthur. “I was waiting for one, to raise the issue with you.” 

“Did you think we’d only ever work together from this point on?” 

“I think I’d love that and hate that,” said Arthur truthfully. 

Eames laughed. “Me, too. Take a job, I don’t care. Well. Not true. I _do_ care. I will miss you desperately and make you be extra-nice to me to make up for it.” 

“You’ll stay here,” Arthur said. “If you want. Of course.” 

Eames beamed at him. 

***

Arthur’s first job back was unexpectedly exhilarating, and he had a blast, and he missed Eames with every breath he took. He was barely through the door before he had them both naked and then he didn’t let them leave the apartment or even put on clothes for two solid days. 

“Thank God I happened to have food in the house,” Eames commented. 

Arthur held up a Twinkie that Eames had Dom export to them. Eames said that Dom’s Twinkie-sending was Dom’s best quality. “I’d hardly call this food.”

“You’re eating it,” Eames pointed out. 

“Because I need to get my energy up for the next round. Now show me more of the art.” 

And Eames went through everything he’d worked on while Arthur had been away. 

And he finished by presenting him with a canvas tied with a bow. 

“What’s this?” asked Arthur, setting aside the bottle of wine he’d been drinking directly from, because he’d been away for too long to care about things like etiquette. 

“A gift.” 

“Eames, you didn’t have to get me a gift.” 

“Arthur, look at the million things you brought back for me.” Eames gestured to the pile of trinkets. 

Arthur felt the tips of his ears go red. “Those aren’t gifts, they’re just…they made me think of you, so…”

“Well, this made me think of you,” Eames countered. “Go on, open it.” 

Arthur untied the bow and opened the canvas and suddenly burst out laughing. “A Titian? Really?” 

“Ring Cobb and tell him that I definitely don’t pickpocket bloody tourists when I feel like I need to get my head back into the game.” 

“No, you steal Titians,” said Arthur, indulgent. “You’re so ridiculous.” 

“You love it,” said Eames, confident, and then pretended to fellate a Twinkie. 

***

Eames took a job for an old friend. He was excited at the prospect, and Arthur could hardly begrudge him since Arthur had been the one to leave first. But still, Arthur was miserable at the thought of his apartment without Eames. 

“It’ll only be a few days, darling,” Eames assured him before he left. 

“I’ll be absolutely fine,” Arthur assured him, appalled that his dread at being alone had been that apparent. 

“Call me every minute if you wish,” said Eames, and kissed him against the door. 

Arthur wanted to use the opportunity to straighten the house from the hopeless Eames-inspired mess it now was, but he couldn’t bear to move any of Eames’s things. He spent an entire evening moping in front of Eames’s art like an idiot and dodging Eames’s calls because he didn’t want Eames to know how mopey he was being. He texted Eames later with a lie about having taken himself to see a movie, and he was sure Eames knew it was a lie, but Eames didn’t call him on it. 

Arthur, determined to give himself something to do, selected his two favorite Eames paintings and went down to some art galleries. He had long been urging Eames to do this himself, but Eames kept insisting he didn’t care about selling any of it. Arthur understood that they didn’t need the money, but he thought Eames was scared of what people might say, and he didn’t want Eames to be scared of that because Arthur was pretty sure Eames was a brilliant artist and he wanted that confirmed. 

It was confirmed, and the gallerists loved it, and they said they’d definitely have a show, and they were in paroxysms of pleasure over an undiscovered artist. 

Arthur told Eames that night, sprawled out in bed with his laptop on his lap. It was very early morning where Eames was, and Eames looked sleepy still, not quite awake, and distracted also, flipping through a file, because apparently the mark was tricky and Eames had taken a job as his personal assistant. 

“These bloody nine-to-fives are not for me, darling,” said Eames, yawning hugely. “I might have been cut out for a normal life, but it would have to have been the normal life of a lazy artist who could sleep until noon every day.” 

“Speaking of,” said Arthur. 

“Do not even tell me that I go out of town and suddenly you sleep until noon,” said Eames, glaring grouchily at the computer. 

Arthur laughed. “No, I still get up at dawn, that’s not just something I do to irritate you.”

“Well, you never know, pet, do you?” 

“At least I bring you coffee.” Arthur frowned a bit. “Does it really bother you? I can take some mornings off. Weekends, maybe. We can make you coffee using that French press I have.” 

“Ah, yes, that _is_ a lovely thing, thank God you were in denial about your hatred of coffee when you bought that thing.” 

“We’re off topic.” 

“What was the topic, love?” 

“I brought your art to some galleries.” 

Eames’s image on the screen stilled. He looked up from the folder he was flipping through. “You did what? Why did you do that?” 

“Because I wanted to make sure I was right about them being brilliant. And I was. _Am_ , I guess. Anyway, you’ve got several galleries who would be beside themselves to host a show from an amazing new discovery like you. It’s fine with me if you never want to sell your art. Also fine with me if you want to sell it. But I just wanted you to know that it’s really very good, and I’m not just saying that because I’m fucking you.” 

There was a long moment of silence and then Eames said, “Arthur, darling, you truly have such a way with words.” 

“You bring out the romantic in me,” said Arthur. 

“Arthur, seriously, thank you for that, love,” said Eames gravely. “If you’d asked me, I would have told you not to, so I guess I’m glad that you knew to do it without asking me.” 

“I think you’re going to be a fantastic personal assistant,” Arthur told him. “If you run into trouble, just take off your shirt.” 

“Done being objectified for one morning,” Eames announced, and winked at him before he ended the call. 

***

At the end of the fifth day without Eames, Arthur remembered a long-cherished fantasy of his and called Eames’s cell phone. It went straight to his voicemail, which meant Eames was down below, because Eames always shut his cell phone off when he went into a dream. 

Arthur left a quick message: _I’m thinking we should get a dog. Let me know your thoughts on this._

Hours went by and he didn’t hear back from Eames, and he hoped everything had gone okay in the dream and then he hoped he hadn’t thrown Eames so much by wanting a dog that Eames was ignoring him while he tried to think up a response. Arthur almost called Eames back to leave another message— _Never mind about the dog_ —but then he thought that would make him look more like the crazy person he was than he was comfortable revealing. 

Then the door to the apartment swung open and Arthur had his gun up and aimed before it fully revealed Eames. 

Eames looked completely unsurprised to find Arthur pointing a gun at him. He just said, “A dog, darling? Really?” 

Arthur put his gun down and looked at him and said, “You should have told me you were coming home. I would have met you at the airport.”

“No.” Eames shook his head and swung the apartment door closed and dropped his bag to the floor unceremoniously. “I didn’t want to have an X-rated reunion at Charles de Gaulle.” 

Arthur lifted his eyebrows. “Are we having an X-rated reunion?”

“Yup. Right now. Join me in the bedroom.” 

Arthur grinned and followed him in. “Everything go okay?” 

“I am going to tell you about the job in great detail after our X-rated reunion,” said Eames, having already pulled his shirt over his head and now working on his pants. “And that’s also when we’re going to talk about the dog.” 

“We don’t have to get a dog—”

Eames made a noise and put his fingers over Arthur’s lips, stilling them. “After the X-rated things happen.” 

So Arthur pulled Eames’s fingers into his mouth. 

***

“What happens when we’re both away on jobs?” Eames asked. 

“He’ll go with one of us. We’re good at what we do, people will put up with our eccentricities.”

“Agreed,” Eames said. “Do you think we can start sitting on the balcony naked? Do you think I’ve charmed the neighbors enough for that?” 

“It’s France,” said Arthur, shrugging, “I’m not sure any charm was needed.” 

“The dog will link us. It’ll be easier for people to figure it out.” 

“Eames, we’re good, you and I, we really are, and we’ll try it for as long as we can, but we’re never going to keep it secret forever. Sooner or later one of us will do something that gives it away. And I don’t want to be worrying about that. I don’t want you worrying about that. I want us to live our lives and enjoy each other and never have regrets.” 

“Do you have regrets?” Eames asked. 

“I regret not telling you I loved you in Rio. In Moscow. In Bangladesh. In Miami. In Ecuador and Nairobi and Thailand and Japan. In Charleston and Vancouver and St. Petersburg and Prague. On the inception job, or as soon as I walked into that suite in London. I regret each and every time I didn’t tell you.” 

Eames looked at him for a moment. Then he said, “Let’s get a dog.” 

***

They were both adamant that they get a rescue dog. Arthur suspected they both secretly thought of themselves as mongrels who had gotten a second chance, and they wanted to do the same for their dog. Eames fell in love with every dog they saw and wanted to bring two hundred dogs home. It was Arthur who narrowed it down, because they simply did not have the space for two hundred dogs. He fell head-over-heels in love with a medium-sized reddish-brown furball who stared up at him with dark eyes lost in a thicket of uncared-for fur and wagged his tail and licked his hand tentatively, like he wasn’t quite sure about all this but he was okay with giving it a shot. 

It was kind of how Arthur felt about everything in life. 

Eames, who had been bounding enthusiastically up and down the kennel shouting back, “What about this one, darling? And this one?” circled back to find Arthur sitting in the dust of the kennel in his five-hundred-dollar pants with a lap full of dog who was licking at his chin. 

Arthur looked up at him and tried to think of what to say to both explain his current behavior and let Eames know that this had to be the dog they took home. 

Eames smiled at him and said, “Oh, Arthur, look at that; you’ve gone and fallen in love. I’d be jealous if he wasn’t such a worthy rival.” 

And so luckily Arthur didn’t have to explain anything at all. 

They brought the dog home and cleaned him up. A lot. He seemed excited to be able to see again, and he wagged his tail at them ferociously. He was fiercely devoted to Arthur and followed him everywhere, looking at him with soulful eyes. 

So Eames in retaliation started to feed him people food, which Arthur was against. 

“I’ve got to do something to win his heart,” Eames said. “You got his undying devotion for rescuing him. How am I ever going to compete with that?” 

“He loves both of us,” Arthur said, but was always secretly pleased to think the dog loved him more. 

Eames named him Tate, and when he suggested it Arthur laughed and kissed the dog’s nose and said, “Aw, after our first date. Eames is getting all romantic.” 

And Eames said, “ _Getting_ romantic? I’ll have you know, I have been very romantic this entire time. Now get over here and blow me and earn your keep.” 

Arthur laughed again. 

He texted a photo of Tate to Dom and captioned it, _We got a dog_. 

Dom texted back, _I just do not understand how the two of you work together as a couple._

Arthur looked up at Eames, now on the floor wrestling with Tate, and texted back, _Perfectly_.


End file.
